Money's great. What I wanted was Carla.
With the vice concession in Prescott in my hip pocket, at the rate I was going I'd buy the fucking hotel soon. The hotel and the cashier that went with it. All a meaningless daydream! Carla Grant would never place her cool cunt on the auction block. I knew that instinctively and realized that was one reason I loved her.
Loved her! I thought I had complications. I hadn't even met Alec Holmes and Company yet.
That dappled pleasure I owed to my hardy rustic clients, the Endicotts. Therein lies a warning to all unwary advertisers: word-of-mouth can make strange music!
The Alec Holmes Troupe selected the hottest day in midsummer to make its appearance. Things were slow in Prescott-in the hotel as well as at the cabin. Summer in Iowa takes the starch out of you. Your collar wilts. You have to take your shirt off. Your prick wilts. Even a shower doesn't help much.
That morning, my freshly laundered uniform had that slept-in look. Surrounded by dusty valises, Alec Holmes could have come from another planet. He was one of those fat guys who doesn't sweat. His pants kept their crease over his blubber. Alec's idea of country clothes was to substitute a striped tie for a solid. His suit-all ten acres of it-could only be Brooks Brothers. In a balding, oversized, conservative way, he looked almost dapper. Experience told me: This guy's New York through and through. My sixth sense told me: The bastard's a potential rival.
Later I wondered why I had that feeling. I think it was that heavy gold ring on his right index finger. Not that legitimate gentlemen don't tote heavy gold rings. Only I'd been admiring its twin in a Prescott store window. A link between us. A bond. Pimp, meet Brother Pimp.
He signed in for three adjoining rooms, explaining that his friends were having breakfast and would be in later.
In the elevator, I forgot about the ring and tried to guess which one he'd buy, if any. Beth? Jeannie? The artist?
Or maybe me.
I distributed their luggage in the three rooms according to Fatso's directions. Then I waited expectantly for the tip and the proposition. Mr. Holmes didn't seem inclined to furnish either. With an immaculate, square handkerchief, he wiped his forehead dry.
“How do you make a living in this shithouse?” he inquired, conversationally.
That could be interpreted several ways. For instance, shithouse could refer to the homey room, the hotel, the town, or the fucking state of Iowa. It could be taken many ways. I chose the wrong one. Somehow I got the impression he wanted to give me a blow job. How did that enter my mind? Certainly not through his demeanor. There was no hint of the cocksucker in Alec's manly stance. No, I blame it on that frigging ring.
I answered his question perfunctorily. “Oh, I manage.”
He grinned, upper and lower plates glistening. For the first time, I smelled more than bourbon on Fatso's breath. I smelled bread. Buttered bread. C-notes. Call it belated intuition.
Still grinning, Alec murmured, “You look like a capable performer. I'm good at spotting uh-talent. Any experience?
“Yes, sir. Lots of experience. I may be an amateur, but they tell me I'm a very capable performer.”
Fatso nodded without further comment. If they're shy, prod 'em. “Are you a producer, sir?” I asked, trying to look innocent.
“Yeah.” He looked me up and down-like a producer would.
“Stage?” I asked.
“Films. That's what I specialize in. Films.”
Mentally, I winged toward Hollywood. Malibu, palms, klieg lights. I was halfway over the Rockies when Fatso drawled, “I might be able to use you. See, I need guys-actors-who don't get shy in front of a camera.”
There's no such animal as a camera-shy actor. Any producer should know that, though I wasn't about to tell him. Fatso added softly, “The actors I hire gotta be hung.”
My plane crashed in the mountains! So it was to be just a routine suck job. Alec Holmes was just another faggo. Using the hoariest approach in the repertoire. I had some theatrical connections before I started on my travels, so I know all about it. Half the guys hanging around producers' offices are sniffing around actresses' cunts. The other half have their tongues out on the track of prick. Stage door Marys.
I played it naive because they go for that. “Gee, I'm not shy, sir. And I'm hung. Honest! I'd give anything to break in the movies. I could er-audition.”
“Yeah, maybe you'd better.”
I unzippered, and unreeled my equipment. “I have ten inches when I get it up, mister,” I confessed, bashfully. Fatso surprised me. He glanced at the merchandise, murmured a casual, “Yeah,” and walked to the window.
I let it hang out. Not at all happy with his reaction. To be rejected by a prickeater!
Prodding hopefully, I whispered, “Gee, I'm horny. Why don't we-”
Fatso's teeth flashed again. “You think I wanna go down on you?” He threw his head back, roaring. I felt like a bellhop from Prescott. And I thought I could spot them! Covering up, I headed for the exit. Fatso puffed after me.
“Don't be in such a hurry, kid. We have some talking to do if you're gonna work for me.” He looked out the window again, impatiently. “Where are those bastards?” he grumbled. “What time is it, Doug?”
Doug? I knew his name from the register. How did he know mine if not by word-of-mouth? The sure way to find out is to ask, but Holmes noticed the puzzled look on my face and spoke before I could frame the question.
“You are Doug, aren't you? Surely there aren't two hustling bellhops in this outhouse.”
“Endicotts or the Rawlings?” I inquired, gently.
“I don't know the Rawlings?” Fatso explained, “but the Endicotts spoke highly of you. We came directly from the Endicott farm. Me and my superstars.”
Me and my superstars sounded like a cigarette commercial. I was too proud to beg for enlightenment, but Holmes again noted my baffled expression.
“Fran and Davey-my superstars,” he explained, not without a trace of pride. “Told you I was a producer, didn't I? Fran and Davey are the best fucks in the business. We're touring now, looking for fresh settings, new material. You'd be surprised how hard it is-”
Before he could talk more shop, there was a tentative knock at the door. Fatso went to open it, greeting the two newcomers paternally. “You took your fuckin' time about it. C'mon in an' meet Doug.”
My theatrical connections had included an off-Broadway actress and a playwright who wrote entirely in monosyllables. Golly! I'd never been introduced to a real live porno performer. I had the average layman's expectations. A blonde with too much lipstick and a frilly pair of panties. A stud wearing black socks, garters, a smirk, and a hard-on.
So much for expectations. Fran and Davey looked like your next-door neighbors. The female superstar was a skinny kid, not much higher than my elbow. Wavy black hair down to her shoulders, dark eyes to go with it. Neatly applied lipstick.
At first glance, Davey seemed even less professional. He looked like an illustration from a textbook on sadism. Or like a caveman in sport clothes. Short and squat, hair-matted, with bushy brows above close-set eyes. He was about ten years older than his co-star, but judging from his vacant expression I wouldn't care to estimate his mental age.
After presenting his little troupe, Holmes resumed his plaintive description of their odyssey. “You'd be surprised how hard it is, Doug. We sorta planned on using the natural resources of the country.”
“You know what I mean. Sailors and barmaids on the Coast, cowboys on the plains, rustic backgrounds and personnel in the sticks.”
“You're not getting me to screw an animal,” Miss Fran insisted.
“Those fuckin' cowboys!” Davey muttered.
Holmes made soothing noises. “The sailors were quite cooperative, and so were the barmaids. We have plenty of footage. But, as Davey so rightly commented, those fuckin' cowboys!”